Of Clowns and Corndogs
by wrestlefan4
Summary: For ShawnsGuardianAngels Spring prompt. Matt/Jericho...Matticho. AU. Carnie Matt Hardy is curious about the greenie and finds him crying in the freakshow tent. Can Matt make Chris's smile more than just a painted facade?


_**A/N: I hope the person who requested this doesn't hate clowns. If so, I am so sorry! Also I hope this is somewhat accurate or believable—I looked up some Carnie terms for it. Hope you all enjoy. Also, Matt was supposed to top, but there isn't a sex scene in this. I'm sorry and I hope that doesn't disappoint. For Catlink—from ShawnsGuardianAngels Spring prompt.**_

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Well there are some sad things known to man  
But ain't too much sadder than  
The tears of a clown when there's no one around

~Smokey Robinson~

The summertime air was sticky and stagnant, only barely beginning to cool slightly as the sun sank and the shadows began to creep out. The carnival had been shut down for the night, and Matt who ran the corndog joint wiped his hands on his jeans as he closed up, and tilted his head towards the evening sky. Clouds hung thick and threatening in the distance, just waiting to shudder with lightning and thunder, and douse the parched dusty ground with a downpour.

Matt sighed, and swiped his dark curls back into a sloppy ponytail as he walked. He stepped deftly over the thick bundles of cables from the rides that led to the genny that provided them with the power to whirl and twirl and blink with colors that reminded him of his little brothers hair. Matt enjoyed just walking when the midway was like this—dark and abandoned after the throngs of people left, stuffed with rich foods, cheap prizes, and emptied pockets.

Matt passed the sugar shack, where Cody Rhodes worked always winking at the cute guys and spinning treats that would make lips and hands sticky. Rhodes always tasted like the sugary cotton candy, ask anyone and they could tell you as much. He was a little lot lizard, rarely found in his own bed at night. Which bed he could be found in on any given night was sometimes bet on just for fun behind his back, and he was too oblivious to ever notice. He was gullible, a real hammer-squash—but damn if he wasn't a cute idiot—and he was damn good at what he did after the lights were down and the calls were silenced.

He dragged his toe in the dust, kicking at a small stuffed plush that some kid had probably lost after a parent had laid down a double or half-yard of their poke on the cheap thing. All he could see now lit up were the bunkhouses the carnies stayed in—the boneyard. The lights of his own that he shared with his brother were off, telling him that Jeff was probably with his boyfriend Raven. Raven who drew people to his booth with his call of palm reading which was complete bunk. The only thing The Raven could tell from a hand, was whether or not it had been washed, and maybe what sort of food shacks the owner of said hand had visited that night. When Raven and Jeff were together however, they were either snorting blow or fucking in some new, insane way that they'd figured out. Matt really liked neither option, but what could he do about it.

Really, Matt would usually be eager to get to Hunter's trailer where most nights a group could be found downing beer and playing poker, but tonight he had another mission calling him. Off the midway, was a large tent. The canvas material was spangled red and yellow, tonight the front flaps were closed. The sign reading 'Peepshow' was hidden in the shadows. During the day, this would be a lively attraction. Christian Cage could be found standing outside calling to passerby, waving his arms and motioning towards the tent behind him, the yellow of the material dirty looking, the red sun-faded to more of a gray-pink. His gig was basically as the head of the thing, kind of like a circus ring master.

Christian always wore a kind of costume that was some sort of strange gothic clash. His favorite one consisted of slacks with wide purple and black stripes, paired with pointed black boots. It made his long, slender legs, seem even longer and spindlier like some sort of praying mantis waiting patiently for a tiny bug to snag. That was usually matched with a studded belt, a black vest with a mesh shirt underneath, and a deep purple string tie with a spider-broach with the body a big red stone the color of pooled blood. He usually had a tall top hat perched on his head, the band around the hat matching his trousers. He seemed like a dark vision that had stepped out from a Tim Burton movie. That was exactly what Christian reminded Matt of, as he smiled oddly, almost creepily, at the children who passed by—as though trying to mask a glare.

But right now, Christian wasn't around. The Peepshow was closed for the night. Christian would be patiently waiting in his trailer for the poker game at Hunter's to wind down, in hopes the big man would call his pet for a session once the others were gone. After the Peepshow was closed down, no one dared step foot into that tent. Christian held his strange livelihood dear, as the guardian of the outcasts and freaks within.

There were the Bellas, who were conjoined twins, often drawing curious lookers. Mark Henry was billed as "The Worlds Strongest Man" and he did his act wearing a red singlet—and was jokingly called 'Kool-Aid' by the other carnies. The Big Show was the resident giant, and the partner in his act was Dylan Postl who called himself Hornswoggle and dressed as a leprechaun, always showing off his crazy antics. Matt's brother Jeff was the diver, climbing to extreme heights only to spin and summersault off into a small pool below—a part of the show Matt never stuck around to watch because it secretly terrified him. It seemed as though at every turn, Jeff was caught asking Christian if he could make the platform higher, or if he could change his routine into something even crazier. There was never enough for Jeff, the high never lasted long enough or strong enough.

Matt Korklan billed as "Air Bourne" was one of the acrobats, his partner a cute Asian boy called Yoshi. The two of them made magic with what they did, wowing crowds again and again. Johnny Morrison who called himself "The Shaman of Sexy" was the contortionist—the things he could do with that beautiful body of his was beyond amazing. There wasn't a person in the lot who wouldn't love to spend a night with him, but he was picky about who he let in after hours and so his fellow carnies settled for making up elaborate stories about their sexual encounters with him. Everyone knew these stories were all bull crap, and John even found them highly entertaining. It was just about having fun, and seeing who could make up the dirtiest tale.

Last but not least, were the guys who painted their faces up to play the clowns—running around and squirting people with the plastic flowers on their shirts, or morphing plain looking balloons into animals for the children, who often times screamed, cried, or threw food at them. It was one of these clowns who was the only person Christian allowed in the tent after dark. Why he allowed this one certain person, and no one else, was a subject of mystery and one that everyone knew not to approach. It was the same with the tent itself—you didn't bother it. If Christian was caught or was told of anyone sneaking into that tent, he would most likely bring about their death in some horrible way which had probably been perfected before hand in his dark, intelligent mind. Matt could only imagine his own curly head stuffed and hung as a prize in Christian's trailer. It almost made him laugh—that of course was a bit of an over dramatization, but still. Christian was a creepy little bastard and he would not stand for lurkers. Well, except for the one who had drawn Matt's attention.

This guy was a greenie, or new. Matt remembered seeing him on what was probably his first day with the group. The blond had ran up to Matt as he set up his corndog stand to greet the day. The blond asked him the one question which completely gave away his status in the group—he'd been sent to look for 'The Key To The Midway'. It was a fools errand, like telling someone to get a left handed screwdriver, a glass hammer, or a cordless extension cord. Matt had shook his head, trying not to give away the joke with a smirk. The guy was obviously frustrated, and he'd probably been around to most of the other stands fluttering like a chicken with his head cut off. No doubt whoever had sent him on the snipe hunt had deemed it important and done quickly, with dire consequences if the key wasn't found. Matt flipped switch on the deep fryer, bringing it to life, before turning back to the handsome blond with the blushing cheeks. He jerked his thumb towards the shake-up stand that Mickie James and her girlfriend Nattie ran.

"I think Nattie had it last." Matt had said with a shrug, sending the blond on his way. "You better get it too—if Vinny finds out it's lost he'll be madder than a wet hen, and the greenie always gets blamed!" Matt called after the blond as he hurried towards the shake-up joint, his eyes trained on his shapely ass and the way his hips moved with his stride.

Matt had been captivated ever since, but hadn't been able to see the blond around very much. Usually, everyone knew everyone, it was like a big family. Even the new guys became assimilated soon enough, and were let into the close circle, but not the blond. In fact, Matt didn't even know his name for a long time, and when he asked someone else he usually got a shrug. He'd finally gotten the name Irving from someone, and Matt was only glad his parents hadn't given him such a name.

The main reason Matt decided to seek out Irving, was because every time Matt saw him, he seemed sad and lost. Something drew Matt to him and he just knew that Irving would have a bright, beautiful smile if someone took the time to bring it out of him. He'd heard from some of the others whispering, that Irving always came to Christian's tent after it closed, and usually sat up most of the night. There was all sorts of speculation as to why, some theories more fitting for the gutter. No one really knew though, and Matt's curiosity drove him to find out.

Hesitantly, his hand touched the tent flap and quietly moved it open. The canvas rustled, but not enough to alert or disturb the man he saw sitting in the shadows. Irving was sitting on an overturned bucket in the middle of the round ring where most of the shows went down. A slant of light flittered through a tear in the tents roof showing his painted face in contrasting shadows. He was sniffling, the sounds soft in the darkness. Matt slinked in and sat on his heels, just watching for a few moments.

Irving wrapped his fingers into the fake, blue, curls of his clown wig and pulled it off, revealing long blond hair that tumbled down around his face and shoulders. His shoulders slumped, his back curved over and head bowed, as though he was in mourning. The streaks on his cheeks caught some of the pale moonlight and glimmered. He wiped at them with the sleeve of a bright yellow jacket, the sequins glimmering like cheap diamonds. Matt stood, and crept quietly towards the hunched man, who was obviously crying.

"Irving?" Matt extended his hand, about to touch the clowns shoulder. Before he could touch him, Irving startled, letting out a gasp of surprise.

"Don't touch me, Corndog!" He bit out, his sad face turning to a scowl. His bright eyes shimmered beneath his tears. The elaborate paint on his face was partly washed away, streaked by the salty drops that rolled down his cheeks. Even frowning, the oversized red lips painted onto his face smiled, and it was a sickening picture to see. Matt knelt in front of Irving, refusing to be driven away so easily.

"Corndog? Well, haven't been called that before."

"I've never been called Irving before, either." The weeping clown bit out. Matt quirked an eyebrow.

"Well hell, I thought that was your name. What is it then?"

The clowns brows furrowed, as his hands nervously played with the wide, colorful tie at his neck.

"Doink." He whispered, the edge from his sharp words falling away a little.

Matt rolled his eyes.

"Doink the clown, I got it but that's not your real name. Listen, I'm Matt Hardy." He said, extending his hand and waiting for 'Doink' to take it. After a moment of further hesitation and tie-fumbling, the clown sighed.

"It's Chris, Chris Irv—Jericho." He corrected, taking Matt's hand limply. "I changed my last name. My family wouldn't accept me for who I am. They didn't approve of some of my personal preferences." He said quietly. "It used to be Irvine…not _Irving_…but it's neither now. It's Jericho."

Matt nodded, and moved some of Chris's long hair away from his face.

"What's got you so upset?" He asked, tilting Chris's chin up.

The blond still avoided Matt's eyes, even though they were warm and inviting. Matt pulled a napkin from the pocket of his jeans, and offered it to Chris. Chris took it with a weak 'thanks' and wiped at his pink eyes, attempting to dry them, but they just kept leaking as though a pipe had busted inside of them.

"Are you going to answer me?" Matt asked.

Chris crumpled the napkin, already soaked and smeared with ruined paint. He took the end of tie and used that to keep dabbing at his eyes. He shook his head somberly.

"I just…I don't know where I belong." He finally said, sniffling his nose. "I've never felt included or wanted anywhere, including here. I don't even fit in with a freak show, what's wrong with me?" He cried, his words staggered with his hitched breathing. "I ran away from home at a young age hoping to find someone or some place where I could feel accepted. I just…want a place to call home, some people to call my family and friends." A sob escaped from his lips and he bowed his head away from Matt. "I'm tired of having no one at all, spending my nights awake and exhausted in this fucking tent, not able to stop my tears. I'm so, so tired of being alone all the time." He sighed, the sound of defeat and devastation heavy in his speech. "I'm tired of all of it, Corndog. I don't know why I'm still here…you know?"

"Hey now, don't talk like that!" Matt felt a shiver course up and down his spine.

Chris's last words made him fidget with now knowing too much about his object of curiosity. Matt knew what those last few words meant, that Chris didn't mean 'here' as in, in this tent, or 'here' as in, with the carnival—what he meant was much more basic and much more horrible—he didn't want to be _here_ as in, he didn't want to be anywhere. Matt's eyes grew wide with alarm as Chris pushed up the sleeve of his gaudy clown jacket, and the moonlight revealed thin lines crisscrossing the soft flesh of his wrist. Chris's fingers moved over the tiny scars, his nails scraping at them.

"Don't, don't do that. Come on…"

Matt swatted Chris's scratching nails away, and took the other in his hand. Matt's fingers rubbed softly at the red furrows Chris had made against his skin, over those old scars. He hadn't drawn any blood, just angered the skin to a dark pink. Not knowing why, but just on impulse, Matt brought the wrist to his mouth, and kissed it softly. He drew it away, a smile curving his shapely lips, as he noted that Chris was watching him closely and the flow of his tears had ceased.

"Hey, Chris…y'know why Cody won't blow the clowns?" Matt asked, smirking at the confused look reflected back at him.

"Wha…no I don't know why."

"Cause they taste 'funny'." Matt finished, delivering the corny punch-line.

Chris's downturn lips slowly stretched into a small smile.

Matt reached for Chris's pretty blond hair and tugged at it.

"A blond and a brunette were in an elevator with a man. They both noticed he had some dandruff on his shirt, but were too nice to say anything to him about it. Once he finally got out two floors later, the brunette said, "Wow, somebody should give that man some Head n Shoulders." The blond looked confused. "How do you give shoulders?" He asked the brunette."

Chris's smile widened to show perfect white teeth, and he laughed.

"Now, that's a lot better." Matt grinned, tucking Chris's golden locks behind his ear.

The two of them started to toss jokes back and forth, the subjects and lines getting racier until they were both in stitches laughing at the crude humor.

"I'm glad you're smiling." Matt said quietly. He stroked Chris's cheeks, smearing his fingers with some of the white paint. "You have a beautiful smile…soft looking lips…"

Matt leaned in and kissed Chris. He didn't have to coax very much, the lips pressed to his responded, caressing his own, and opening slightly to allow Matt's tongue to sweep over them. Matt's strong hands wrapped around Chris's waist and pulled the blond into his lap, deepening the kiss, and plunging his tongue into the warm space. Their lips moved away, and Matt drew his thumb over Chris's bottom one.

"Maybe I can make you smile more often." Matt said, moving Chris from his lap and standing. He offered Chris his hand to help him up, and the blond took it. "It just isn't right that the only happiness on your face should be painted."

Chris blushed, but the pink was mostly covered beneath the smears of paint still on his face.

"Maybe you can paint it there." Chris answered, weaving his fingers with Matt's. "I…I like you."

"I kind of like you too, Doink." Matt joked, ducking out of the tent and pulling Chris after him. "You wanna come to my trailer tonight? I mean, so you don't have to be alone."

Chris moved closer to Matt, letting the dark haired man wrap his arm around Chris's shoulders. He looked up at the stars winking out in the night sky, and then back to Matt, and his warm, caring eyes.

"I would love that." Chris said, and he and Matt began a slow walk towards the boneyard where lights shone from windows of the bunkhouses. "Hey, maybe I can try out your corndogs. Those are my favorite, especially the jumbo ones."

Matt laughed, and Chris's giggles mingled with his, the sounds of their new found happiness wafting down the empty midway.


End file.
